


The More Things Change

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Series: Yellow Fever [3]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1793, F/M, Fainting, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Yellow Fever aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 16:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10250945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: The more things change, the more they stay the same, the old saying goes. Washington cares for Hamilton after he nearly faints during a cabinet meeting. Washington knows he won't stop worrying until he's seen the boy safely into Eliza's loving arms.(Related to Winter's Chill and Take a Break)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story continues the Washington-Hamilton dynamic from Winter's Chill and fits in the same time frame as Take a Break, but you don't need to read either to understand this one.

“We will discuss this at further length in the cabinet meeting _tomorrow_ ,” Washington asserts sharply when he sees Jefferson’s mouth open to add another comment. They all needed to time to reflect and to cool their passions. Perhaps himself most especially. Unfortunately, this would not be the first meeting that ended with him stomping through his office and kicking the furniture.

 He sees Jefferson swallow down his comment and nod. “Of course, Mr. President. I bid you a good night, then, sir.”

He nods and bows in farewell. He then turns, expecting to see Hamilton behind him awaiting the same parting gesture. Instead, he finds Hamilton still seated. Washington fights down his temper, always tested most sorely by this boy. He presumed too much, sometimes. Washington needs a break from him as much as from Jefferson. 

“Mr. Hamilton,” he prompts firmly.

Hamilton’s gaze draws away from an uninteresting point across the room to meet Washington’s eyes. He immediately jumps to his feet, as if snapping to attention. Washington watches with growing concern as all the color seems to drain from Hamilton’s face. The younger man’s knees begin to buckle, his eyes rolling back.

Washington is holding him up before he’s consciously decided to move. Hamilton is light in his arms, delicate as always, thinner than he’s been in a long time. Long ink stained fingers grasp at his shoulders as Hamilton works to keep himself on his feet. In the end, the boy presses his forehead against Washington’s shoulder as well, his weight almost entirely supported by the aging general.

A beat of silence followed, until at last Hamilton inhaled deeply and began to push away. “My apologies, sir,” he mutters, voice weak and face still stark white.

“Hush, my boy,” Washington whispers gently. Taking Hamilton by the elbow, he maneuvers him back to the chair. “Here, sit a moment.”

He looks back to find Jefferson frozen in place just inside the door. “Mr. Jefferson, would you ask a clerk to bring some water, please?” he requests.

When Jefferson steps out, Washington turns back to Hamilton, squats at his side, and raises a hand to test his forehead for fever.

“I’m all right, sir. Just a little dizzy. I stood too quickly.” The weakness of his voice belies his argument.

“Healthy people do not swoon from the mere act of standing,” Washington informs him. “Just sit quietly for a moment.”

To his amazement, Hamilton does as he asks. Those piercing eyes close and his head tips forward as he inhales and exhales deliberately. Washington, still crouched beside him, reaches out and cups the back of his neck tenderly, rubbing a thumb over the base of his skull.

“Water, sir,” Jefferson announces as he enters the office once more. He holds out a little pewter cup to Washington, a flicker of concern in his expression as he looks at his political enemy. Washington nods his thanks, somewhat surprised his Secretary of State had taken it upon himself to accomplish the menial task.

“Here, son. Take a sip,” Washington urges gently, raising the cup to bring it to Hamilton’s lips. Hamilton’s hand grasps weakly at the cup, clumsily gripping at it over Washington’s strong hands as he tries to take control. Washington eases his hold, allowing Hamilton to hold the cup, but keeping a finger on the bottom to insure it does not fall. It’s a delicate dance he’d perfected with his grandchildren when they were small.

“Is it the fever?” Jefferson asks with forced mildness.

Everyone had been wary of Hamilton since he’d contracted Yellow Fever that fall. The sickness had driven the government from Philadelphia and claimed the lives of some five thousand citizens since August. Hamilton had survived (thank the Lord), but he’d been weakened ever since. His work was suffering; he was missing important meetings; he was swooning before political enemies.

Jefferson had been the first to flee the sickness, the first to question whether the Treasury Secretary truly suffered from it, and was now the first to fear a possibility of a relapse. Washington sighed as he glanced at his Secretary of State. He’d always liked and admired the man, but if Jefferson continued to force him to choose, he didn’t think Jefferson was going to like the answer.

“He feels cool enough. His eyes have no lingering yellow. Whatever is wrong, it is not the fever,” Washington assures Jefferson calmly.

Jefferson reaches forward tentatively and claps Hamilton gently on the shoulder. “Be well, Mr. Hamilton,” he wishes as he departs.

Hamilton nods once but does not open his eyes.

“How is the water settling?” Washington asks, both to make conversation and to see whether he should produce a basin for the young man.

Hamilton swallows and assures him, “Fine, sir. I’ll be quite well again presently.”

“Take your time,” Washington encourages.

Hamilton sits with his eyes closed for a few more silent minutes. Washington stays by his side, his thumb again stroking the back of the boy’s neck. When Hamilton recovers enough, his eyes will flash with annoyance for the familiar gesture. Washington finds he does not care.

The young man sniffled lightly then met Washington’s eye. “I think I’ll be all right to stand, now, sir.”

Washington nods. He pushes himself out of his squatting position, wincing as his knees creak. He’s no spring chicken, he thinks ruefully. Hamilton rises slowly as well. The color stays in his cheeks this time.

“Thank you for your kindness, your Excellency. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you,” Hamilton apologizes, bowing slightly to the President.

Washington feels a swell of affection for his one- time aid as he returns the parting gesture. Hamilton had always been one of his favorites. He’d bucked at every kind word and affectionate gesture, but nothing Hamilton did could remove the tendril of love that had settled in Washington’s heart.

“You’ve been no inconvenience, Mr. Hamilton,” he tries to assure him.

Hamilton raises a delicate eyebrow. He’d likely noted the annoyance in Washington’s tone earlier. He’d surely noted the displeasure in Washington’s face when he’d sprang to attention so quickly he’d nearly fainted. Hamilton had a knack for knowing all of Washington’s passing moods.

“I assure you, it was no hardship to allow you a moment to recover yourself,” Washington adds.

Hamilton still looks skeptical but he says nothing more. He follows Jefferson’s path from the office on unsteady legs. Washington can’t help comparing him to a newborn colt in his mind. Unease grips him once more. What if Hamilton fell on his way home? What if he swooned again in some dark alley?

“Mr. Hamilton,” he calls out.

Hamilton pauses and turns back questioningly.

“Allow me to take you home, sir,” Washington insists. He’ll call for the coach and see Hamilton to his door, desk full of papers be damned. Otherwise, he knows he will lie awake worrying over the boy.

“That’s not necessary,” Hamilton says with wide eyes.

“I insist,” Washington replies, already heading to the door to call for the coach.

“No, sir,” Hamilton pleads, fingers catching at his sleeve to stop him. “It wouldn’t be proper. You’re much too busy to be chauffeuring me about Philadelphia.”

“It would take at most a half of an hour and it would put my mind at ease greatly,” Washington replies. “I’ll accomplish little if I am sitting at my desk worrying that you’ve fainted in the street and been run over by a passing carriage.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” Hamilton says stubbornly.

Was it possible the boy didn’t know how dear he was to his old commander? Washington shakes his head and chuckles to himself. Hamilton looks confused at the President’s private merriment.

“I’ll make that an order, then, Colonel.”

Hamilton now smiles weakly at him. “I don’t remember joining the army again,” he says thoughtfully.

“March,” Washington barks. Hamilton responds instinctively, making Washington smile once more.

He calls for the coach and rides the few blocks to Hamilton’s rented home. When he follows the boy from the carriage, Hamilton huffs in annoyance. “You don’t need to escort me to the door. I’m not a swooning damsel.”

Washington fixes him with a hard look, not bothering to remind him that he’d caught the boy from a half faint within that very hour. Hamilton goes quiet, opening the front door and stepping inside.

“Betsey?” he calls as he moves into the foyer.

Eliza steps out of the parlor, a surprised expression on her face. “Honey?” she asks. Spotting Washington in the doorway, she adds, “Mr. President?”

“I’m fine,” Hamilton assures her immediately.

Eliza sighs and wraps her husband in an embrace. Peeking over his shoulder, she addresses Washington, “Won’t you come inside, Mr. President? Perhaps have some refreshment?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I just wanted to see Mr. Hamilton safely home,” Washington assures her. He can feel a fond expression on his face as he watches Eliza run a hand down her husband’s back.

“I’m fine,” Hamilton insists again.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Eliza coos. She shares a knowing smile with Washington over her husband’s shoulder.

“I bid you good day, ma’am,” Washington says, bowing to Eliza. He adds, “Be well, my boy.”

He hears Hamilton grunt something in reply, but the words are lost against Eliza’s neck where he’s buried his face.  Undoubtedly it was another assurance that he was fine.

“Good day, Mr. President. And thank you.”

He smiles at Eliza again before turning to go back to the coach, shaking his head to himself. The boy would never change.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Feedback always appreciated!
> 
> Come follow me on tumblr at aswithasunbeam.tumblr.com


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